This Time Around the Galaxy
by Jilly-chan
Summary: AU Dorothy and Nichol made a bet. Nichol lost.


This Time Around the Galaxy  
  
By Jillian Storm  
  
(Disclaimer: I started this a long while back, after reading Alithea's fic "The Constellation Andromeda" which can be read under the user name Alithea or here: storyid=992139 Nichol lost a bet at the end of her story, and I figured that payback was worth exploring in a story of my own. Characters not mine. Written while listening to Garbage 2.0, so for whatever credit they deserve as influences on the story. Enjoy.)  
  
***  
  
You are a secret,  
  
A new possession,  
  
I like to keep you guessing.  
  
When I'm not sure what I'm looking for  
  
When I'm not sure what I'm living for.  
  
~Temptation Waits  
  
***  
  
She caught his eye almost immediately because of the short length of her black dress. Muscular calves stretched downward and gave him an eyeful until tapering into the open-toed heels. The distraction continued with her honey brown hair that looped up into braided coils exposing the back of her neck where a substantial amount of golden links was fastened together. Her cheeks reflected the lighting and she laughed with her blonde companion, both of whom Nichol recognized.  
  
"Looks like they've come to make sure I return their employee unharmed."  
  
"Not likely," Nichol scowled, making a significant effort to hide his annoyance both in his voice and on his face. He kept turned toward the elegant box seats that decorated the sides of the theater. A few private donators had restored the Illusion Theater to its pre-war glory. Nichol had calculated that attending one of its stage performances would be an easy way to pay up on his end of a lousy bet. Seemingly, Dorothy Catalonia had come to watch over his debt like an amused deity from her lofty station. Even if her presence was only coincidence, he still felt the obligation of his debt. "They haven't seen us yet."  
  
Nichol sat back in his seat properly, but still ran his fingers through the dark curls just over his collar feeling the uncomfortable tug of the expensive jacket. The fabric pulled a bit too tight around his shoulders and the sleeves came short from his wrists. He seldom needed to dress up, but Dorothy always struck a complicated bargain.  
  
"Still, it is awkward that Dorothy and Une have come as well."  
  
Nichol shifted self-consciously away from the other man, then deliberately undid the movement. Every restrained direction of body language, every tastefully polite phrase was necessary to free him of the obligations of loosing to Dorothy. However many times they played their games, Nichol did not want to jeopardize his last threads of integrity. He would even suffer this insult if only for the chance to play the game that would eventually be Dorothy's undoing. He had to wait for that opportunity.  
  
He stared at the playbill allowing him a moment of relaxation from the charade; although, now and again, he would glance from the corner of his upper vision to the seats where he could almost see Lady Une. Such a glance would immediately alternate to look down at the knee next to his own. A hand settled on that knee, curling around and tugging up on the cloth. A simple gold band decorated the ring finger. Both Nichol had never before considered with much interest. Except, the ring put a sudden and interesting spin on what others (namely Dorothy) had claimed was an obligatory first date.  
  
Following the arm, Nichol cautiously studied the progressive features of Trowa Barton, who was sincerely browsing the descriptions of the cast in the theater booklet. As usual, the younger man had an indifferent set to his lips, unworried cheeks slanting upward toward the framework of high bone structure, and an indescribable complacency resonating through the lowered gaze. That solid resoluteness had first irritated Nichol when Trowa Barton had come to Lady Une's estate, subcontracting to work with her business for six months. Only, instead of six months, Trowa had entered the unquestioning favor of the Lady and she'd hired the boy into the newly open position for which Nichol himself had been posturing.  
  
Sighing did little to release the tension in his shoulders. If life continually gave Nichol anything, it was the occasion to shoulder defeat over and over again.  
  
"Comfortable?" Trowa said, only his lips moving. His voice expressed interest, followed by quick silence.  
  
Nichol answered affirmative, but didn't feel relief until the house lights dimmed. Concentrating on the show would at least let him pretend he was alone.  
  
What happened instead as the room went dark, Nichol heard the echoing words Dorothy had left him with last, "Give him a call, and for God's sake be polite when he kisses you goodnight."  
  
Her conditions had startled him at first. Challenges between himself and Ms. Catalonia happened as frequently as his gripes about Barton's endless good fortune. Therefore, when Dorothy had set a simple bet against his agreement to ask Trowa Barton out for one evening and actually treat Barton like a decent human being, his reaction had been a quick and severely irritated agreement. That retort ended up putting him in such a compromising situation. And no matter what he had told Trowa Barton, Nichol knew with great certainty, that this evening was something that Dorothy could not overlook.  
  
***  
  
"Thank you for asking me to go with you, Nichol." Trowa said simply, stepping from Nichol's black Camero. Relatively new to the area, Trowa still lived with his step-sister, which was another spur to annoy Nichol. Nichol had put forth some expense devising a way to muscle a reaction out of the stoic Barton by sweeping Catherine Bloom off her feet. Which like most clichés had fallen flat and only brought about additional troubles. It was a bet over Catherine that had given Dorothy the upper hand.  
  
Furiously fighting back the wealth of excuses he had conjured up for just that moment, Nichol felt sick hearing his voice call out quite casually, "Did you want me to come in or . . ." A necessity so that Dorothy would have no cause to complain or forfeit any future challenge Nichol issued on her.  
  
A rare twitch of muscles and Trowa half-smiled as he leaned over to peer into the car better, "No, you're fine." Then, tapping the ledge of the opened passenger window with his hand, the ring clicked against the metal. Trowa stood straight and retreated to his sister's house with a slow stroll, his shoulders rolling forward to reduce his height by a fraction. His suit jacket looped over one arm, as he had both hands hidden into the pockets of his trousers. Light brown hairs curled just over the edge of the grey turtleneck, all together making Trowa Barton seem exaggeratedly slender and vulnerable. As if by simply walking that short distance he was dissolving away in the uncertain light of dusk.  
  
Nichol let a final breath of relief whistle past his pursed lips and stretched out his stiff neck and shoulder muscles. The drive home Nichol approached with a leisurely pace. He let his thoughts fall back on every comment, none of which made it seem as if Trowa Barton had an suspicious attraction to Nichol as Dorothy had so cattily insisted with her hinting. In fact, Trowa had been unbearably civil. The straightforward politeness made Nichol wonder if any preference Trowa might have though he had before this evening had been effectively dissuaded. Even if Barton was attracted to guys as a rule, he apparently had realized Nichol was only a passing infatuation. The idea that Trowa might have found him good looking fixed a smirk on Nichol's features for several minutes.  
  
As he pulled into the parking garage for his apartments, Nichol briefly wondered if the entire evening had been a horrible gag Dorothy and Trowa had dreamed up as a special new torture to add into their workplace conversations. Determined that he didn't care, Nichol stepped into the pea green glow of the elevator and took a deep breath of the familiar smell of metal and stale-carpet.  
  
He managed to have a relatively ordinary evening. Only, in the shower the next morning, he fleetingly wondered if the ring Trowa wore still had some significance.  
  
***  
  
"Reservation for two?" The hostess bobbed her head, words bubbling forth without waiting for confirmation. She recognized her Monday lunch regulars.  
  
Nichol waved his hand with a broad sweeping gesture, indicating that Dorothy should go first. She smiled at him with almost Barbie-like creases fixed into her cheeks, as fake as one of Dorothy's smiles could achieve. He watched as her skirt swished around her knees, a more modest sundress that didn't make her in the slightest less womanly. He observed the silver- gold hair curling and waving around her shoulder blades. Every movement a teasing invitation that he'd learned to suppress answering.  
  
They always met at the Pasta Palace for Monday lunches. Nichol came directly from the office. Dorothy, under the comfort of a part-time position which she only worked to stay off boredom, came from home just staring her day. In passing, he wondered if he were going to get an earful of questions regarding the previous night's affair. In part, he had fabricated a rather juicy tale of euphoric union of two minds and the subsequent disaster of premature affections. He could spin a good story.  
  
The waitress left them to their private room, a small balcony overlooking the lake but enclosed in glass to allow in only the autumn sunshine and not the decreasing temperatures. Nichol surveyed the landscape while still standing, letting Dorothy sit first. She settled her skirt around her and crossed her ankles girlishly.  
  
"You look quite charming, Dotty," Nichol spoke first. Then, broken by unexpected nervousness, he pulled out his own seat with reckless speed and immediately sank into it. Anxiously, he touched the rolled napkin, fingering the edge of it a moment before releasing the silver wear and shaking out the cloth. The server returned with a basket of breadsticks uniquely seasoned to that particular establishment's reputation.  
  
"You seem quite anxious, Nichol," Dorothy responded coolly, reaching for the glass of lemonade that came to her, also without the necessity of a verbal request. Once she had stopped enjoying her first taste of the freshly made drink, she leaned forward and spoke a little more softly, even though their conversation was quite private and secure, 'You didn't happen to enjoy yourself last night, did you?" Her eyebrows lifted with the inquiry.  
  
"Actually," Nichol fumbled for his fictional account, and then found it easier to defend himself with the truth, "Barton was a perfect gentleman, and, once we saw you at the Illusion Theater last night, it was all the easier for me. Hardly a word was spoken between us," Nichol chewed thoughtfully, savoring what minor victories he could from participating as the losing party in Dorothy's wager, "I paid for your latest pet to see a decent theatrical production and my obligations to you are complete."  
  
"For the moment." Dorothy traced a finger along the lip of her glass, "I am, quite frankly, surprised." Her comment did not seem surprised at all. Her full lips pulled together into a determined line.  
  
"Why so?" Nichol leaned back, almost wishing for a lake breeze as Dorothy's gaze filled the room with her own variety of tension. "Even if you thought you were doing Barton a favor, and even if he does fancy a gentleman over a gentlewoman, did you know that your Mr. Barton sports a ring of commitment on his finger?"  
  
"He didn't mention that it was significant to you, did he?" Dorothy pried, the sunshine making her fair skin seem like powdered porcelain.  
  
"He didn't breathe a word," Nichol fell to cutting at his food with the silver wear that he had released in the first moments of their lunchtime. Feeling no curiosity, but rather an overwhelming need to brag that he'd done what Dorothy had thought impossible, to remain civil in the presence of the most recent person to fall onto Nichol's list of people who annoyed him.  
  
Dorothy let a disappointed pout distort her doll like appearance, "What a waste. And here I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. Get you a decent significant other, for once, Nichol. Then, have you clarify for me some of this interesting fellow's past."  
  
"Can't you just ask his stepsister?" Nichol bristled, the mention of Trowa's sister reminding him of the uncanny resemblances of the unrelated siblings, "And you were doing me no favors by making me socialize with Barton."  
  
"But you obviously have many more sparks with the brother than with the sister," Dorothy chuckled.  
  
"Not if last night is any example," Nichol protested, deciding to weigh in the evidence rather than letting her dissect his emotional responses. He had learned to avoid that conversation early on in his friendship with Dorothy. When they'd both revealed their desires for a mutual friend, Dorothy, at that time the newcomer, had systematically undermined Nichol's every sincere hope. While in that battle they had played fair, Nichol still disliked his ongoing role as the third-wheel. And with their recent business relationship, he'd slipped a fiddle to Barton.  
  
"Maybe he's playing hard to get," She mused, looking out the window. The slight smile that pulled at her lips Nichol guessed was not part of their immediate conversation from the way the blonde woman lazily caressed the necklace Une had given to her.  
  
"Maybe he's not on the market," Nichol replied, spearing his lunch with determination.  
  
***  
  
After what became the shorted probation period in the history of the company, management gave Trowa Barton a personal office with his name stenciled on the window of his office door. Nichol paused in the entryway, a deep-rooted snoopiness driving him to visit the staff lounge instead of making his telephone calls for the afternoon. In fact, since the night in the theater, quite a bit of his work found itself moved from the 'to do' box to the 'neglected' box. Trowa Barton's office just happened to be on the way, and Nichol gripped his "Go Away I'm Fixing Your Mess" coffee mug as an excuse.  
  
The door sat mostly open, letting Nichol see the city landscape through the fourth floor window. Trowa's figure cut a shadow against the brilliant glass, arms crossed behind him and the suit looking rather comfortable on Trowa, which surprised Nichol who tugged instinctively at the front of his jacket. Curiosity won over the twitch of resentment that reflexively worked at his cheeks.  
  
"Come in," Trowa said, then turning to look over his shoulder he lifted his eyebrows, "Oh, it's you."  
  
"Does that mean I can't come in?" Nichol smirked, holding the mug with both hands by that point and his toes lined up at the junction of hallway and office carpets.  
  
"No," Trowa's desk was arranged in organized piles of clutter. Super-sized soda from a local fast food joint perspired against the wood surface causing Nichol's more cleanly sensibilities to jump into his throat, although he didn't comment. After Dorothy making him behave around Trowa for an evening, the repetition of practiced politeness seemed to have settled into habit.  
  
Framed awards and academic achievements already hung on the walls between shelves of dark, dusty, hard-covered books. Besides the window, the only light was the small desk lamp balancing over a picture so that Nichol couldn't make out the image for the reflection.  
  
After a moment, the wiry-haired man realized that he had caused an amused, yet impatient appraisal from Trowa.  
  
"I was just . . . passing by . . . for coffee." Nichol pointed at the mug, which he held forward like it was full body shield from Trowa's expression. Then spinning, in what he hoped looked like a fashionable military snap, he escaped.  
  
***  
  
The best way to confront a problem, in Nichol's estimation, was to avoid it. A policy that he regretted not having observed earlier in the week. He knew of his own weakness for impulsive action. That was what got him tangled in Barton's life in the first place. Repressing that weakness was another matter.  
  
Although, he found that ignoring Barton did improve his productivity.  
  
Dorothy looked in on him occasionally, "Going out tonight?"  
  
"Not with you," Nichol kept typing at his computer, not missing a keystroke. He didn't have a private office, instead his space also served as a makeshift hallway for those passing from the front office lobby to the backroom storage offices. Even for the invading, regular traffic, Nichol was happy to at least have a consistent workplace. The only decoration was whatever miscellaneous news the staff thumbtacked to the corkboard on the wall behind him.  
  
Dorothy chose that moment to observe the news board rather thoroughly, as she leaned against the back of his chair causing it to roll forward slightly.  
  
"Pardon me." Nichol growled, hunching over the keyboard even as Dorothy's hair threatened to tickly the back of his neck.  
  
"You didn't seem bitter, so what happened to you Nikolai?" He could feel the air as she spun around, then as she settled to rest her arms across his shoulders and whisper in his ear, "I've been waiting for you to come back and challenge me again."  
  
"I'm not interested." Too tired to grumble, Nichol paused from typing and strained his neck to peer into her pale, blue eyes.  
  
She continued to invade his personal space, confidently. But her expression relaxed, "He got to you too, didn't he?"  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," He should have been a witness for a defense; he refused to buckle.  
  
"He does it so easily, right?" She stood up, but let her fingers still press down on his shoulders, "How he looks so perfect, but really sad."  
  
"I hate that."  
  
"Me too."  
  
Nichol was certain they had not meant the sentiment in the same spirit.  
  
***  
  
That evening, Nichol ended up at the same bar where he'd lost his bet originally. The live music was loud. The crowd was tight pressed at the bar. He didn't recognize any of the dancers. The pressure strengthened outside and in. While confident that he'd overcome many of his noteworthy weaknesses, he felt a lingering brashness that wanted to lash out. He wanted free from his respect for Une that kept him from taking his frustrations out at work, free from his determination to play fair with Dorothy, and free from his nervousness around Trowa Barton.  
  
Nichol blamed those thoughts as the reason he flinched at her touch.  
  
"Hey, remember me? Haven't seen you in a while." Catherine Bloom let her hand linger on his elbow, and he hoped she couldn't feel the way she'd caused the pulse of his heart to accelerate even though he could feel it pulsing from his neck, up his ears and through his forehead.  
  
"Yeah," He nodded, forcing himself to match her stare. For stepsiblings, she had the same half-amused or half-impatient expression set into her curved lips and high cheekbones.  
  
"You wanted me so that you could get back at Trowa, right?" Her frankness surprised him, but Nichol wouldn't say he didn't appreciate a straight shooter.  
  
"I won't deny it." Nichol narrowed his eyes. The physical characteristics and body language similarities aside, Catherine's personality was very different from Barton's.  
  
"What if I wanted you in order for me to get back at someone?" She laughed, falling sideways into his lap.  
  
Nichol had women in his lap before, but holding Catherine was different. Surprise worked against him, even as he attempted to match her train of thoughts, "I have to point out that you're drunk, and, say: Don't you like women?" The image of Catherine's trim figure dancing with Une and sealing his lost wager seared into his recollection.  
  
"Not as a rule," Catherine's auburn hair fell away from her neck in loose, shimmering curls. She'd picked up some glitter from the club. "Comfortable?" She asked, shifting her hips.  
  
"Ah," Nichol muttered, "You seem to be."  
  
"Want to make a bet, Nicky?" She pulled closer to him, letting her slim arm wrap around his shoulder and neck. The air was too thick to breathe.  
  
"You've been talking to Dorothy, haven't you?" Nichol felt a surge of liberating satisfaction in that connection.  
  
"Enough to know that I've great odds at winning this game," Catherine's earrings sparkled in the dance lights and she traced Nichol's jaw with her index finger, putting slight pressure with her nail.  
  
"So you're tired of losing too," Nichol said quietly, "This makes us quite a pair, Catherine."  
  
"I want attention," Catherine admitted, "And you want . . . well . . ."  
  
"Shut. Up." The growl ripped through Nichol's throat with a surge of anger as he grasped her hips and pulled her close to kiss the bow lips. Feigning indifference to the fleeting thought of how similar those lips might have been to another's.  
  
***  
  
"So what would she do if she knew?" Catherine asked, spinning her fingers through the dark hair she could find on Nichol's chest and using his shoulder as a pillow.  
  
Nichol half-reclined against the wall and from their back corner booth, he was able to watch the band starting to clear off the stage. All he wanted to do was fade away into the oblivion of intoxication, but felt sinisterly too sober for all the alcohol he'd consumed and all the memories that the woman sprawled over him triggered, "She already knows."  
  
Catherine's hand stilled. She didn't have to say anything for him to register the fear that must have consumed her in the following silence between them. Catherine was the sort of girl who wanted significance in her relationships. He knew it from the way that she was trying to get at him even though her thoughts were reflecting back to another evening and another person.  
  
"Don't regret what you've done," he felt some sympathy for her, after all he had been in her position before, when he thought that he had a chance with Une, "I wouldn't."  
  
"Bastard."  
  
He felt something wet along his arm. After a minute, he decided to touch her face, using his thumb to wipe away the tears left there, following along her cheek, down her jaw to pull on the lower lip by which he was fascinated. He struggled to keep his eyes open and remain conscious of his setting. His arm started to fall asleep where it was pinned across his own chest. Catherine stirred, pulling away her body heat.  
  
He furrowed his brow, watching with one eye as she slipped out from the end of the booth and started to straighten her clothes. She turned back to him and leaned as far as she could stretch her trim figure across the tabletop, "He already knows."  
  
His reserved instinct wanted him to deny any obvious reaction. Unfortunately, Nichol never listened to that side of himself after getting drunk with his antagonist's stepsister. His hand reached out to grab her arm, "What?" He said coldly, opening his eyes and, very awake, sat up.  
  
She tried to pull back, startled, but he didn't let go, "You're hurting me."  
  
"No, I'm not." Nichol corrected, checking his grip but not letting go, "I want you to stay."  
  
Her eyes widened, "So you can hurt Trowa through me?"  
  
"Maybe," Nichol shook his head, "I don't know. No. What does he say?" Finally, he asked the question that haunted him most. He wanted Barton's damn approval.  
  
"He says you're too straight for him," Catherine response was kind as she channeled her stepbrother, "And that if you even did want to experiment, he's not looking for that."  
  
Nichol fought to keep his jaw closed around the spring of questions fighting through his thoughts, he stared at his watch on the wrist that still held Catherine's arm in place, "Does he know that you're here? Does he know about . . . Une?"  
  
"I suppose, he's probably . . . thinking about other things right now . . ."  
  
Nichol's head snapped back, "What?"  
  
"Well, it is almost two in the morning," Catherine features softened, smoothing the lines of worry that had been startled into her face moments before, "Although, if I did say something to him about you acting stupid he might go looking for you."  
  
"I can't believe that your hyper-protective brother would let you . . ." Nichol frowned, uncertain how he felt.  
  
"Trowa doesn't get to know about everything I'm doing." Catherine mirrored his expression, and Nichol started to see where Trowa ended and Catherine began, "He doesn't know about Une. He doesn't know that I'm here with you."  
  
"I don't know how I feel," Nichol chose honesty.  
  
"Me either," Catherine's smile turned sheepishly, a blending of alcohol and sleepiness. A very Catherine expression, and one that Nichol understood, "I think I should go home."  
  
"Me too."  
  
Nichol realized he still had her hand trapped, and immediately let her go. She twirled her ring around her finger, picked up her purse, glanced over at where he continued to sit, staring and suddenly very bewildered.  
  
***  
  
The ring that Catherine wore, he realized, was just like Trowa's ring. The connection couldn't have been coincidence, and Nichol felt a strange relief. If he knew the stepsiblings at all, the rings were of some peculiar, familial connection.  
  
He realized he had been staring at the hand holding his pen for quite some time. In fact, since his conversation with Catherine a few days before, his productivity had decreased to an all-new low. He'd taken to hiding the in-box overflow in the top drawer of his desk. He'd also retreated into a more solitary position, avoiding Dorothy when at all possible. Avoiding Une was easy.  
  
Oddly enough, it was all too easy to avoid Trowa Barton. He couldn't find the guy even when he deliberately lurked past Trowa's office even when he wasn't trying to refill coffee.  
  
"There you are!" Dotty walked up to him from the direction of the staff lounge, and Nichol, even though he felt a bit caught peeking into Barton's office, felt a bit of the upper hand from her comment.  
  
"Looking for me?" He stood taller, appreciating the flush on Dorothy's pale cheeks and the way she breathed through her mouth, a few strands of hair stuck to her lower lip with a life of their own.  
  
"What can I say?" She clearly was ruffled, and Nichol wondered if she'd come from Une's office, and directly down six flights of stairs, "Looks like what goes around, went around."  
  
"Pardon?" Nichol asked, baffled, but still appreciating his confident position.  
  
"Catherine told Une she wasn't into experimenting." Dotty hissed, "I'd say it looks like you got what you wanted, Nichol."  
  
"Wait a second," Nichol frowned, "Maybe your 'star' isn't interested in games, but I didn't . . ."  
  
"She said she had a revelation," Dorothy's silver-blond hair vibrated with indescribable emotion, which Nichol suspected Dotty couldn't have described even if she had a moment to pin it down and label it, "After talking with you. Just because I made you take her brother out once didn't mean that you had to start manipulating her. I know you aren't after her."  
  
"Dotty," Nichol tried again, with as much affection he could must when Dorothy started raging, "If Cathy and I have anything in common, we're both losers in your game. I didn't do anything to her."  
  
"Oh, I bet you didn't." Dorothy's scowl was injured and strangely child- like, reminding him for the first time consciously that she was a good seven years his junior. The pout she wore so different than the seductive one he was used to and made her look every bit as young as she really was.  
  
He felt odd having Dorothy react so openly while in such a public place, and he wanted to tuck her away so she could feel safe. Simultaneously, he hit upon a possible resolution.  
  
"You know what I bet, Dotty?" Nichol folded his arms, coffee cup safely stretched out from one side, "I bet that you can't stay faithful to just Une. You've had your eye on Cathy all along, haven't you?"  
  
To her credit, Dorothy snapped her jaw shut and refrained from an immediate reaction. Unlike Une, whose age added a timeless grace and sophistication, Dorothy still fell subject to her pride.  
  
"Fantastic, so you steal Une away from me-only to drop her when the next little tart bats her blue eyes your direction," Nichol ticked his tongue against his teeth, "Tut, tut, Dotty. You shouldn't break your toys."  
  
"What about you?" Dotty hissed on a low breath, "You play around like you don't care, but I've seen how you watch Trowa. You send the most messed up mixed signals, so it's no wonder that he quit."  
  
She said the last with such flourish that Nichol knew she'd been waiting to tell him. Not that she'd intended originally to hurt him, but Nichol had to fight to keep from venting whatever emotion started to pulse behind his eyes-for example: punching something, like the wall. Dorothy's eyes seemed very blue as they widened, but nothing else on her face moved. Their relationship was not founded on regrets or warmth.  
  
"You sort out your love life. I'll redefine mine." Nichol said, more coolly than he could have expected, but with the resignation of needing some strong emotion to make any progress-even if it was anger.  
  
"If I win, you owe me an apology." Dorothy's smile fluctuated to her face an unsuspecting co-worker passed them.  
  
"And if I win, you owe me an apology. Looks like this is the last game, Dotty." Nichol felt his nose wrinkle around his frustration. The entire concept of games made his stomach turn, but something had to be resolved. Moreover, he knew that Trowa would never be happy if Catherine didn't have some sort of resolution.  
  
"Men," Dotty snorted, "I had no idea. Since when did he become so important to you?"  
  
Nichol's mouth worked like a fish and as his control slipped, both his neck and ears turned violently red, "Excuse me?"  
  
"I'm sorry," Dorothy underwent some sort of transformation as she accepted the challenge before her, and she continued on her way, "Your indignation is so charming, I couldn't resist."  
  
"Dorothy, get back here." He roared, but she didn't pause even for a step.  
  
***  
  
"I'm guessing that I still have an open invitation?" Nichol asked, not feeling particularly clever and not having any good reason for standing in the doorway of what was soon not to be Trowa Barton's office. The diplomas and other plaques were in boxes on the floor beneath where they'd hung between the now empty bookshelves.  
  
"On your way for coffee?" Trowa turned from staring out the window. He seemed rather reluctant to have company, from Nichol's estimation.  
  
"No, actually," Nichol's hands were empty and without the coffee mug he was at a bit of a loss with what their purpose should be. He tried clasping them together, let them swing loosely at his sides and ended up sitting down in the seat across from Trowa's desk so he could simply put them against his knees, "I heard you were leaving."  
  
"That's right," Trowa's seat swiveled, so Trowa sat at an angle where he could still see out the window as if his eyes were never quite going to adjust to the lack of light inside the confines of the buildings walls, "I did put in a brief notice. Another job lined up." Trowa did look inside then, and almost smiled with the half-amused expression Nichol had become familiar with, "I suppose that means this office will have an opening for you again."  
  
"I was rather bitter about that," Nichol found himself replying amiably enough, "Since I was just starting to get used to having you in this office."  
  
Clearly, that wasn't the answer that Trowa was expecting, as the younger man seemed to need a moment to blink several times rapidly.  
  
Nichol felt his traitorous hands start to sweat with the risks he knew he was going to attempt, "In fact, I suppose I'll have to plan on seeing you outside of the office then. As long as we sign all the proper 'conflict of interest' paperwork, which undoubtedly will be required from us."  
  
"Is this some bet?" Trowa's voice could hardly be heard. He propped his arms against the desk and hid his face behind his interwoven fingers.  
  
"Not for me, it isn't." Nichol searched for the best way to offer reassurance, "I would have done this anyway."  
  
Trowa dropped his hands and, for the briefest of moments, a full smile of relief settled upon his lips, "Well, then. I guess the next time you take me to the theater you'll send me home more properly?"  
  
"That could be arranged." Nichol shrugged, but more specifically was wondering where Trowa hid his smile away.  
  
"I should drive next time too," Trowa suggested, motioning with one hand to his car keys, "I do have a better car after all."  
  
Nichol didn't really mind. He watched the smile flicker on for just a little longer before sliding away that time. For the present, that smile could get away with just about anything. 


End file.
